


Equivalent Exchange

by CompletelyDifferent



Category: DCU (Animated), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Gen, Mind Manipulation, Multi, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2482313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompletelyDifferent/pseuds/CompletelyDifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whether they know it or not, a price has been paid, and a life has been bought. (Or, Wally returns, and nobody is sure how to respond.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've given this fic a 'Teen And Up Audience' rating for language, but depictions of violence should be about equal to the source material. The main relationship is Wally X Artemis- there may be a couple others, perhaps Conner x M'gann and Bart x Jaime, but they're going to be very much in the background, which is why I did not tag them.

_Magic has laws._

_They are not like the laws of physics. They cannot be graphed or calculated or put into equations: at least, not using any system of mathematics yet created by humans. They are more instinctual that that. They run through the blood, not the brain._

_The greatest of the magical laws is this: everything has its price. And nothing has a higher price-tag than a life. There is only one way you can buy one of those: a life, in turn._

_But how does one define a life, really?_

\---------

For a long time, there is nothing. Then there is  _something_.

It isn't much. Just an awful lot of white and cold, but it is _something,_ and that in of itself is remarkable.

\---------

It's the first day of term, and Artemis couldn't be more excited.

She knows that excitement will wear off soon enough, of course, once the essays and assignments start piling up, but for now, she can't keep a smile off her face. It has been a _long_ time since since her last exam, back in May. Only a matter of months, technically, but it feels like forever. A lot of stuff happened in those five months. She died, for a start.

Honestly, it's amazing how easy it has been to put her life back together after her supposed death. Her family, her team-mates, and those in 'the know'- well, they're used to so much weird shit that ' _faking your own murder to infiltrate an evil society_ ' hadn't been particularly difficult to accept. If in the end, the plan hadn't worked off, they probably would have been a whole lot angrier about the whole thing, but the euphoria of successfully stopping an alien invasion really had put a damper on all of that. Everyone was just happy that she was alive, and welcomed her back into the fold without much fuss.

Artemis hadn't been expecting it to be quite so easy for her civilian friends (few as they were) to believe, and she just knew that stuff like government and college paper-work was going to be a pain, but she'd gotten through it. She'd gone with a kidnapping cover-story. Said she'd been stuck with some evil supervillain, which wasn't even technically a lie. Her supposed rescue at the hands of the Justice League had been a miracle. A few people asked about the body- but the funeral had been closed casket, on account of there _being_ no body, but it made it easy to claim that it had simply been misidentified. There had been a lot of crying, a lot of hugs, a lot of casseroles. On the paper-work front, it seemed that most large institutions _did_  actuallyhave protocols in place for this sort of thing. Or maybe Batman had helped grease the wheels a bit.

End result: she's now legally considered alive again, signed up for four new classes, and eager to start fall semester. Her time undercover was draining, mentally, physically _and_ emotionally, and to be honest, the two months afterwards hadn't much better. She's looking forward to getting back to work- specifically, the nice _normal_ work of school.

So when the alarm rings at seven-thirty in the morning, she doesn't even complain or hit the snooze button once. She takes the time for a nice breakfast, making sure Brucely gets a large one of his own. She puts on a cute outfit. She takes Brucely for a morning walk. She checks to make sure all her books and stationary are in order, and that she knows where to find her classes. She even pots a cheery little status on Facebook, something she hardly _ever_ does. 

Then Artemis Crock grabs her keys and heads out the door, more than ready for a new day.


	2. Chapter 2

Two months back on the team, and things almost feel normal again.

When he had gone on the mission, Kladur'ahm had not allowed himself to think much of the life he had left behind. It would have made it too difficult, to think of his friends, his loved ones, his team-mates, the ones who were making their way without him, thinking him a turn-coat. He dedicated himself to his part, that of the loyal son, one who felt nothing but anger and betrayal towards the Justice League and the one he had once called king.

He had forgotten how much he had missed this. The laughter and the openness and the spontaneity, even in the face of incredible danger. Sometime, in the first few weeks after he had returned, Kaldur had had to repress the urge to order everyone to be quiet, to behave. After over a year of military discipline, the Team's playfulness had seemed absurd, dangerous. It was not. Just because his comrades were easy showing joy did not mean they were not capable.

Finally, he has found himself settling back into the role he once had. To say that Atlantean public opinion of him is low would be an understatement in the extreme, but he has reconciled with both his King and Queen, who assure him they couldn't be prouder of his work. He has re-earned La'gann's respect, and the two of them have taken to sharing private training sessions to keep their underwater abilities sharp. The youngest heroes, the ones who only came to the team after his departure, had originally seem split between mistrusting him and being in awe of them- that sense is finally fading, and they are coming to seem him as merely another leader, like Superboy, Miss Martian and Nightwing.

As for those three, some of his oldest friends from the surface world....well. Though he has never said as much, Connor is more than happy to have him back- they often train together as well, or discuss tactics, or perhaps converse about books they have recently read. He has calmed a lot in the past year. Grown a lot.

M'gann...was harder. She was clearly relieved and thankful for his return, but otherwise things were tense. She put on a professional face in front of the Team, but in private he could nearly feel the guilt radiating off her. Eventually he had pulled her aside. “I forgive you,” he had told her. “While I cannot condone some of your actions in this past year, what you did to my mind was a consequence of my own choices, and I bear the fault. We should have told you the truth.”

“But I...” the martian had began.

“Yes,” the Atlanean had agreed. “You made a mistake. But you fixed it. And I still consider you my friend.”

Things have been better since then.

As for Nightwing....well, he still has not returned to the team. Kaldur does not blame him. He carried a lot of weight, acting as leader in such a trying time. He deserves a chance to clear his head, focus on other duties. They still talk, occasionally. Last Kaldur heard, he's working on some cases in Bloodhaven, taking down some of the major crime-bosses.

Kaldur hopes he will return soon. They started the team, Nightwing, Superboy and himself. It would be good to have the original three back together.

\----

The first thing he does is run.

It's not even a choice; the first thing he's conscious of, besides the whiteness and the cold, is the movement of his legs, the pump of his arms, the blood in his ears. It feels _amazing_.

For some time- he's not sure how long- he simply savours that feeling, enjoying the sharpness of the air in his lung and rush of the world moving past. It's only after the initial euphoria is past he notices how...odd the situation is.

Point One: he's either somewhere very far north, or very far south, judging by the endless expanse of ice going in all directions, and the icy temperature. He suspects he would be freezing, if the running wasn't keeping him warm.

The running. That's Point Two. There's not a lot in the way of geographic markings out here, so its difficult to tell, but he's pretty sure that he's running at a really high speed. Really, _really_ high. Beyond the capabilities of a normal human, kind of thing.

Why is he at a pole? How can he run so fast? He's not sure. And that realization lead him to another one- Point Three.

He doesn't know his name.

The realization stuns him, to the point where he nearly trips and just narrowly avoids crashing, head first, onto the icy ground. Instead, he manages to skid to a halt.

He doesn't know his own name.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time Dick Grayson entered the Batcave, he was just under eight years old, and he stumbled across it completely by accident while exploring the mansion late at night. He had wandered around its echoing chambers, staring at everything in awestruck wonder- at least until Batman had appeared out of the shadows and the boy had nearly jumped out of his skin.

Since then, Dick has spent an untold number of hours there; training, studying, researching, recovering, living. It's a home to him, more so that his apartment in Bludhaven. It's as much a home to him as the circus and Mount Justice _used_ to be.

Therefore, it is impossible for him to just  _slink_ into the Batcave. Because it is his home, and he  _totally_ has a right to be there. And if he does seem to be sticking to the shadows, well, that's just good practice, right?

At the very least, he manages not to look guilty when a slightly shocked voice says, “ _Dick?_ ”

“Er. Um. Hey Batgirl,” he answers, sheepish. He tries a smile on. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Barbara says, staring at him behind her cowl. “You?”

He shrugs. “Fine.”

“Right,” she says, with just the slightest edge of sarcasm to her voice. Then she goes back to restocking her utility belt, like she had been doing before she noticed him out of the corner of her eye.

He hangs there, awkward. He had been expecting more than that.

“Um...” he begins.

Barbara turns to look at him. “What?” she asks flatly. “Were you expecting a lecture? Or for me to pepper you with questions about what you've been doing these last two months?”

“Kind of, yeah.” (It was kind of why he'd been hoping to bump into Alfred or Bruce, first, not her or Tim. Alfred's learned not to both asking questions, and his guardian rarely bothers.)

She sighs. “Well, I'm not. You needed your space, and I get that.” There's a pause. “Though it would have been nice to hear from you occasionally.”

“I kept Kaldur updated,” he protests. Not to mention, he's sure that Batman's been keeping tabs on him, if not Batgirl and Robin personally. She knew enough to be sure he was safe.

She steps closer. “Not the same as hearing it directly from you,” she says in a low tone, her voice filled with concern and affection. Then she switches gears, becoming more professional. “How'd the gang bust go?”

“Finished it off a few nights ago. Police are taking it from here.” It had been good, satisfying work. A job well done.

Batgirl finishes re-stocking her utility belt, and the two of them walk towards the main hub where the Bat-computer sits. The screens are filled with the usual assortment of case files. Dick glances between them, the mug half-filled with tea by the monitor, and the costumed Barbara. “What are you doing here? I figured you'd be with the Team.”

“New base is still under construction,” Barbara says with a shrug. “Besides, I've been running a lot of patrols here lately.”

He hadn't even _known_ that hey were constructing a new base- last he heard, the Team was just going to share the Watchtower with the rest of the League- but he files away that knowledge for later. Instead, he focuses on the other thing Barbara had said, and the odd tone in her voice. “Where's...?”

“Business trip. Big tech expo in Hong Kong. Wayne Industries is an important partner.” You can't see it behind the mask, but Dick knows her well enough to tell that she's raising an eyebrow.

“I haven't been paying much attention to the news lately,” Dick says, but he should have predicted this. Bruce had been off-world for _months_ , and in that time, responsibilities had piled up, both as a civilian and a super-hero. While he was gone, Dick had done his best to run regular Gotham controls in the bat costume, just so none of the criminals caught on to the fact he was missing and started to run wild. He'd just assumed that with Batman back, things would have returned to normal; but of course, sooner or later, Bruce Wayne had needed to go on a business trip, leaving just Batgirl and Robin to cover for him.

He feels a pang of guilt; they could have used his help. But- no. He needed some time on his own, and he got it. If they had really needed him for anything, they would have found him.

Besides. “I'm back now,” he says. “I'll probably head back to the Team in a few days, too, once I've checked things over with Aqualad and the others. But for now...I'm all Gotham's.”

A smile twitches at the heroine's face. “Well, then. The police have been giving us some tips about a few mysterious incidents that seem to match the Scarecrow's MO. They'll probably be turning on the Bat-signal in an hour or two, and my dad's been getting a little suspicious about the fact that only Robin has shown up the last two times.”

“Well them,” Nightwing says in a menacing growl that is a _very_ good approximation of Batman's own. “I had better ease Commissioner Gordon's concerns.” He begins to stalk off towards the costume cases, but pauses, switching back to his normal voice, and over his shoulder says, “You know, you're gonna have to tell him eventually.”

“Glass houses, Wonder-Wing, glass houses,” Batgirl teases.

Dick's grinning ear-to-ear while he changes costumes. His two months of sudden seclusion are beginning to seem sillier and sillier in retrospect. He had missed this. 

\---

With nothing else to do, he starts running again.

As he runs, he thinks. He has to have a name. He  _has_ to.

He searches his mind for something, anything. Eventually it comes to him;  _Wally_ .

“Wally?” he mutters to himself. “Really?”

But that  _has_ to be it. He can feel it in his gut. Besides, out of all the cool names in existence, there's no way he'd just choose one as pathetic as  _Wally_ , unless it really  **was** his.

So he has a name. But isn't he meant to have others, as well? Most people do, he thinks.

_Wallace?_ His mind suggests.

“Not what I meant,” he mutters again. He's pretty sure Wallace is his name too, but come on, it's even worst than Wally. “I mean, a last name, or a middle name. Initials, maybe.”

None are forth coming.

“Just great,” he says. He realizes that it's probably not healthy to talk to yourself like this- but then, it's _definitely_ not healthy to wake up with amnesia.

Because that's what this is, right? Amnesia? Retrograde, just like a TV character or something. Wally knows about that, though of course he hasn't a clue how or why of the condition. Apparently retrograde amnesia  _does_ work like on television, wonder of wonders- people can have all personal memories related to themselves wiped clean, but they still remember everything else, like how to talk and the names of objects and shit. Which is pretty lucky, he supposes, because otherwise he would be  _screwed_ .

Lucky. Ha.  _Right_ .

“Well, complaining isn't going to help,” he tells himself.

What will help? People. Maybe they'll be able to work out what happened to him. Maybe he can check into a hospital and be cured. At the very least, they'll give him something to eat. He's  _starving_ . 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter does include a mention of character death, and arguably suicide.

Living on the Justice League Watchtower is...not bad.

It's always a center of activity, even more so than the Cave used to be. Of course, the activity is almost exclusively centered around official League business. Nobody is ever watching TV, or playing video-games, or studying, or anything like that. There's never even much in the way of cooking- the Watchtower has a kitchen, but it's more like a cafeteria than anything, and almost entirely stocked with fast, easy to make snacks that somebody can grab on the go. Nobody is ever baking cookies, or preparing a huge meal, or setting places for dinner. Conner misses all that.

Still, it's leaps and bounds above the abandoned Bludhaven warehouse Nightwing had set up as their temporary hide-out. It actually _has_ a proper kitchen, for one thing- not to mention washing facilities, a med-bay, training area, and an _entire_ indoor park. Oh, and actual quarters, not just cots separated by sheets.

They are, however, quarters, not _bedrooms_. All the Justice League members have their own, _real_ homes to return to, so the rooms were only designed for functionality, not comfort. They are small, bare, and have only a token amount furnishings- bed, desk, side-table, dresser, all in this in minimalist, metallic style.

Honestly, Conner's surprised by how much that _bothers_ him. He's never needed a huge amount of personal space, and he had never felt much of a need to personalize it, not in the way the others had. But the funny thing was...well, over the years he _had_ personalized it. As time had worn on, his room at Mount Justice had slowly grown more and more cluttered. Framed pictures of friends had accumulated on the dresser. On his bed, along with the original plain white sheets and pillows, had sat a Superman plushy he'd received one Christmas. Once, Zatanna, Raquelle and Artemis had dragged him out to a concert, which had been surprisingly enjoyable, and he'd ended up with one of the band's posters on the back of the door. Tucked into one corner of the room had been an over-sized dog-bed for Wolf. The bookshelf had slowly filled up, eventually overflowing to his bed-sized table, all the books he'd had to read for both school and pleasure.

And then it was all gone, in a matter of seconds. Everything he had owned in his entire life.

His new replacement quarters remind him painfully of how his old room had looked, those first year or so. That said, he's been spending an awful lot of time inside them.

He's not a big people person. An introvert, as Black Canary would say. And since the Watchtower has even _fewer_ hideaways than the Cave, it means that his room is one of the only places he can consistently go for some proper alone time.

There are many ways he could spend this well earned privacy. He could make sure he's actually up to date on his readings for college. Maybe he could take some time with his iPod or a nice book, relax and unwind. Conner's pretty sure he deserves that.

But there's something he needs to do first. Well, doesn't _need_ to- but he'll feel better if he does. So sits on the bed and lies back, arms at his side, and stares at the ceiling. He breathes deeply, letting his mind clear. 

It's a habit he picked up nearly three years ago. It had been prompted by a tiring, week long series of...incidents....started by some freak villain with a hypno ray. Under the ray's influence, Conner (or his body, at least) had done some pretty shitty things, and if his friends hadn't caught onto his odd behaviour, it would have continued. Even as it was, he'd helped to steal a good thirteen thousand dollars and put four people in the hospital by the time his teammates managed to snap him out of the trance.

And of course, that was hardly the _first_ time he'd dealt with mind manipulation. His entire _existence_ was based on mind manipulation. He'd had secret programming coded into his brain to make him a docile slave to Luthor. He'd once woken up in the middle of the Bialyan desert with his entire _self_ erased. He, along with the rest of the Team, had nearly gotten caught out by the Light's puppet tech. He'd become dangerously addicted to S-Shields which had made him reckless and violent- but even they weren't nearly as bad as the time he'd gotten affected by some Red Kryptonite. There had been that terrible conflict with Queen Bee; he had witnessed her powers of enthrallment first hand, and discovered later she had used her powers to make Gar's mother kill herself.

So after the hypno ray incident, he'd decided that enough was enough, and asked both J'onn and M'gann for help in detecting, and if possible, _defending_ against mental assaults. He was surprisingly good at it, once the basic meditative technique had been explained- but then, he had spent literally his entire life interacting with telepaths, so he was highly receptive. When his hero work left his mind under siege again, he had been able to fight back.

And then, when he had been sleeping one night, and felt _something_ in his head, twisting his memories...he had automatically lashed against it. Even against M'gann, who had been so familiar in his mind, the defenses had held, recognizing her as a threat. Even he hadn't realized how strong they'd become.

He'd grown so paranoid after that, that for months he'd done meditative checks every day, strengthening his defenses, terrified of the person he'd once been closest to in the entire world. Terrified that his very thoughts and memories would be altered without his consent. He'd eased up eventually, when nothing had happened, and M'gann had truly seemed to have moved on.

Now it is less likely than ever that the Martian will do anything- Conner knows that she is truly regretful. But he keeps the practice up, nonetheless. M'gann was not the reason he started with the mental defenses in the first place, and there are still countless others who would seek to take advantage of him, to turn him into nothing more than a weapon, to be wielded as they see fit. 

So he breathes. With each breath, his thoughts, his worries, his emotions clear. He falls into himself, through the strong barriers he'd raised, into his core, the very center of his being. 

And what he senses there startles him. 

\----

As Wally runs, the ache in his stomach grows stronger and stronger. Soon, a similar ache begins to develop in his head as well, and it becomes apparent that this isn't simple hunger, but something far more dangerous.

_Hypoglycemia,_ he thinks, because apparently medical terminology is one of the things he knows. _All this running is using up a lot of energy, and now my blood sugar is low._

This is only the first step, he recognizes. It's only going to get worst. And it does, much more rapidly then he could have anticipated. The white expanse around him begins to blur, the line between white ice and pale blue sky blending together. With the blurriness, he almost manages to hit a polar bear; he hears it make a strangled noise of confusion and fear as he just narrowly avoids it. He begins to sweat- the air against his face, which previously felt cold, sharp and bracing, now just feels _hot_. There's a tingling all over his skin, especially in the hands and feet, and the pain pounding in his temples becomes even stronger, the beginnings of a proper migraine.

_Fuck_ , Wally thinks.

His heart is beating fast, _thumpthumpthumpthump_ , in his chest. He hadn't noticed it at first- of course his heartbeat is high, he's running at inhuman speeds and kinda freaking out about the whole **amnesia** deal- but now he realizes that this, too, is another symptom.

His limbs feel heavy. It's getting harder to run. He needs to- he needs to find people, and _fast_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait between updates. Real Life has been keeping me busy of late, and I also managed to hit a wee bit of writer's block when trying to get this chapter to come out the way I wanted. Still not 100% happy about it, but whatever. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait folks! I actually had this chapter partially written for a while, but between school work and some nefarious plot bunnies distracting me, I never got around to finishing and/or editing it, despite really wanting to finish it. Isn't that always the way.

M'gann is in her chambers, studying- or rather, attempting to- when there is a polite knock on the door. She literally flies from the bed, welcome for the distraction, only to stop mid-air when she hears Conner say in a low tone, “M'gann? Can I come in?”

She bites her lip hesitantly. She's still not sure where she and Conner stand. Things are better now, much better, but they're still not to where they were before- and she's not sure if they ever will be. But she _likes_ the fact that they can talk again, and hang out, and touch, even if it is just as friends.

She doesn't want to lose any of that. Therefore, she's more than a little nervous at the darkness in his voice, and the cloud of negative emotions pressing against her psyche.

“Yeah,” she calls, as drifts down to the floor. “Come on in.”

Superboy opens the door, steps in, and immediately shuts it behind him. Even though she's trying not to, the martian can practically taste his feelings; _worry, concern, fear, anger._..

He fixes her with an iron stare, and says, without preamble, “Have you been in my mind?”

Her eyes widen in shock. “No. No, not unless you count the mind-link from the last mission-”

“That's not what I mean, and you know it.”

Her lips press together. “No, none of that.”

“Really?” he says, stepping closer to her, muscles tense.

“ _Really._ I would-” she stops. _I would never do that,_ she was going to say, except that they both know that isn't true. She _would_ do it, or would have, once. “I didn't. Not now.”

_Not after Kaldur._

She doesn't actually project that last thought, but unsaid or not, Conner seems to sense it. He relaxes, marginally.

M'gann tilts her head, mind whirring into a million different directions, none of them good. “Conner. Why did you think that-”

“I can tell when somebody's been messing with my mind, Megan.”

She flinches at the sharp words, the same ones he said to her _before_.

He doesn't seem to notice this, however, and M'gann can sense that the anger he's feeling isn't directed at her, not anymore. He's glaring down at the metal floor, hard enough that it would melt if he actually possessed Superman's heat vision, lost in his own thoughts. She hesitates several moments before saying, cautiously, “What do you think is wrong?”

The clone sits down on the bed with a sigh. “Don't know. Something's different, though. I can feel it.”

Tentatively, M'gann takes a seat next to him. “T _ry_ to describe it.”

She doesn't doubt Conner's word on this. Superboy is not psychic himself, but he _is_ very receptive to psychic fields- a side-effect of his genomorph upbringing, followed by a subsequent six years on a team with a very powerful telepath. It's a factor that M'gann should have kept in mind herself when she tried to alter his memories. However, just because he can sense mental manipulation, doesn't mean he can accurately put it into words- that's something that no human language was designed to do.

He gives it his best shot, however. “It's subtle. I wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't been looking. But it feels like something's- _shifted_ , slightly.” He growls slightly in frustration. “It just feels different, somehow.”

“Does it feel like it's your memories or your emotions which have been affected?”

He's silent for a moment as he thinks the question over. Finally, he says. “Both.”

She winces. “Any obviously missing memories? Blackouts?”

“ _No,_ ” he says sharply. His expression softens immediately. “Sorry. It's just-”

“Yeah, I know,” she says.

The implications are obvious. The League and the Team have dealt with mind manipulation many times before- _too_ may times- and they know the consequences that can come of it.

They sit there, silent, considering the possibilities. Then, Conner says, “So. Will you take a look?”

“What?” M'gann stutters, blinking up at him in surprise.

“In my head,” he clarifies, as if that was the part she's confused about.

“I don't-”

“If we leave it, who knows what will happen?” Superboy says. Nothing good, and they both know it.

“But my uncle-”

“Is in the middle of a three day senate with the UN. With _Luthor,_ ” he points out. “You're here, he's not.”

She doesn't say anything, or even open her mouth, just sits there, wide-eyed. Bites her lip.

“Look,” he says. “This wouldn't exactly be my first choice either, but I don't want to risk it. So- please, M'gann.”

So- he still does not completely trust her with his mind. M'gann tries not to feel bitter about it- after all, _she_ still doesn't completely trust herself with the minds of others.

But he's _asking_ , and they don't want a repeat of the Green Beetle incident. So.

“Alright. I'll take a look.”

She shifts on the bed, drawing her legs up to sit cross legged. Conner does the same, knowing the cramping that can occur if one holds an uncomfortable position for an extended psychic session. Once they're both comfortable, M'gann reaches out and lays her hands on either side of his forehead; which is hardly necessary, but _feels_ more natural.

Conner closes his eyes, and she closes her own, and they dive inwards.

oOoOoOo

It's getting worse. _Much worse_.

Wally feels terrible, terrible all over. All he wants to do is lie down. No, all he wants to do is _eat_. Eat the biggest, unhealthiest meal he can find, something with more sugar and fats that would ever be healthy if he didn't have a metabolism which seemingly chews through calories like- like something that chews a lot, he doesn't know!

_Damn, I'm too worn out to even think of good similes anymore,_ he bemoans, and then wonders if he could **ever** think of good similes. Is he a witty person? Wally doesn't know, and it's becoming more and more likely that he's not going to get the chance to find out.

He's slowly down, but Wally fights it. He can't slow, can't stop, not even for a break. It's sub-zero out here, and all he seems to be wearing is some weird yellow suit, clearly built for speed over warmth. Without his muscles generating heat, he'll most likely freeze to death.

_Of course, the way it's going_ , Wally reflects, as he nearly looses his balance, _I might starve first._

His blurry vision actually has _spots_ now. He can feel muscle cramps throughout his legs. He's so tired....

Sooner or later, the car is going to run out of gas, and no amount of will-power will keep it's wheels turning.

But when he sees a small collection of low, brown buildings just on the horizon, Wally realizes with a sigh of relief, that he won't have to. He puts on one last burst of speed, rapidly approaching the town, or outpost or whatever it is- too rapidly, it seems, because the ice here is _slippery_ , and his muscles aren't responding the way they should, he can't _stop_ -

He barrels straight into a door, just barely managing to brace himself. There's a sickening thump. Wally hopes he didn't break anything as he tumbles to the ground.

Some time later- he's not sure how long, time seems a titch fuzzy, maybe he's just gotten a concussion- the door opens. It's a girl, brown skin, ten years or so. Adorable as a button. She stares down at him with wide eyes.

“Please,” Wally manages to creak out. “Food. I need food.”


End file.
